Enter Host, Cornutus.
Host. Tut, tut, thou art welcom; Cornutus is my neighbour, I love him as my self. Tha'st a shrowe to thy wife, gave her tongue to [sic] much string, but let mine Host give thee counsell, heele teach thee a remedie.
Cornu. No, no, my good Host; mum, mum, no words against my wife; shee's mine owne, one flesh, & one blood. I shall feele her hurt, her tongue is her owne, so are her hands; mum, mum, no words against your wife.
Host. Tut, tut, thou art a foole, keepe her close from the poticarie, let her taste of no licoras, twill make her long winded; no plums, nor no parseneps, no peares, nor no Popperins, sheele dreame in her sleep then; let her live vpon Hasels, give her nuts for her dyet, while a toothe's in her head, give her cheese for disgestion,[307] twil make her short winded; if that will not serve, set fire to the pan and blow her up with Gun-powder.
Cittie wife. I, I, mine Host, you are well imployed to give a man counsell against his wife; they are apt enough to ill I warrant ye.
Cornu. Mum, mum, my sweet wife, I know the world wel enough; I have an eare but I heare not, an eye but I see not, what's spoke against thee I regard not; mum, mum, I knowe the world well enough.
Cittie wife. I, and twere more seemely you were at your owne house too; your wife cannot goe abroad, but you must follow; husbands must bee fringed to their wives Petticoates. I pray you tarrie you, ile goe home.
Cor. Not so, my sweet wife, I am gone, I am vanisht; mum, mum, no anger shall stirre thee; no words, I know the world well inough.
Hostis. Twere better, by thrice deuce-ace, in a weeke every woman could awe her husband so well as she.
Gracc. Ist possible? s'foot, well I thought it had bene but a fable al this while that Iole shold make great Hercules spit on his thombes and spin, but now I see if a man were as great as Caesar, Julius or Augustus, or both in one, a woman may take him downe.